Battle Creek: Wolf at the Door
by A Rhea King
Summary: Evidence and strange behavior pins two murders and a drug addiction on Milt. Despite how much Russ dislikes the man, he is suspicious of the evidence, and he is determined to either prove Milt is guilty or find the real killer and prove the FBI agent's innocence.
1. Chapter 1

**Battle Creek:**  
 **Wolf the Door**

* * *

 _My one great talent lies in making those who wrong me suffer horribly._  
— _Archilochus_

* * *

 _Chapter 1_

When the vile combination of body odor, urine, and vomit finally hit Milt, it should have ripped him back into the land of consciousness. Instead, he had to struggle to find consciousness and it was more akin to a hung over frat boy looking for his clothes.

Finally he was conscious enough to look around him. The room he was in was dark and he could see the forms of other people. The people were everywhere in the room, outnumbering the furniture by two to one. Milt wanted to move, he really did, but he felt weak, lightheaded, his lips were numb making it difficult to wet his dry mouth, and his stomach growled angrily about lacking food to work on.

Slowly Milt moved into a sitting position and that was a mistake. His head immediately started throbbing to his heartbeat and a violent wave of nausea threatened to make him vomit. He leaned over his legs, waiting for both to pass. Once the nausea passed, he slowly stood, only then realizing he was wearing just a T-shirt and boxers – he didn't even have socks or shoes. Another look around him gave him no clues as to where he was, whose house he was in, or who all these people were. But judging from all the evidence of drugs, used syringe and needles scattered everywhere, and wasted bodies, he was guessing that somehow he had ended up in a drug house. But how he got here confounded him.

Milt started walking. Several times he almost stepped on used needles and nearly fell trying to avoid them. He had to step around human waste, which added to the rancid smell of the house. Finally he spotted a door that led out of the wretched place and he made his way to it. It opened up onto a sagging porch that looked out on a sad, dilapidated neighborhood. Judging from the cool air and liveliness of the birds, Milt guessed it was morning, but none of that told him if he was still in Battle Creek

He walked down the rickety steps and across the weed choked yard to the front gate. Milt looked both ways, unsure which direction to start walking. He spotted a kid wearing a backpack walking down the street.

"Hey!" Milt called.

The kid just glanced at him.

"Hey! Is this Battle Creek? Am I in Battle Creek?"

"Don't talk to me."

"Just tell me if I'm in Battle Creek."

"You're in Battle Creek. Leave me alone druggie." The kid ran off.

He hoped the kid wasn't lying. He stopped to hold the fence as dizziness and nausea swept over him again. Once the feelings passed, he started walking, hoping it was the right direction.

* * *

Russ kept glancing into the FBI Field Office across the hall. After having left Milt ten dozen voicemails, with progressively well-chosen words, and six more with his secretary, Russ was quickly losing patience with the golden FBI agent. His terse and less than professional attitude finally wore out Milt's secretary cordial patience and they got into a verbal spat over his last message. The fight had jumped Russ' grump meter straight to ' _rip a new one_ ' and when he saw Milt streak past and into the FBI office, his grump moved it dangerously close to the ' _I need a blunt object to throw'_ mark.

He stormed out of the squad room and into the FBI office.

"He's here now," Milt's secretary told him, "but give him a few minutes." Although she didn't even try to stop Russ, or look away from the paperwork she was filling out.

"You think the dead guy got a few minutes?" Russ snapped at her as he walked past.

Russ burst into Milt's office and stopped short. There was something very off in Milt's office and it set off Russ' detective alarm. The first thing he noticed was the slightly greasy hair that told Milt had missed a shower that morning. That had happened before when they had been working late hours and early mornings on a case, but he didn't even know they had a case right now, so why would he have missed a shower? There was also his suit: it was the same suit from yesterday, with wrinkles. Milt never wore the same suit twice a week, and they were always neat and pressed. Throw in the fact he had never been late without calling a single day since he'd come to Battle Creek, but today he hadn't called and he was two hours late. Or maybe Milt had just gotten lucky and Russ was reading too much into the signs. Russ suddenly brushed all that aside; there was a killer out there and did he really care why Milt looked like a mess?

Milt was doing something in front of him that not even the opening door distracted him from and kept his back to the door.

"We have a body," Russ told him.

"Leave the address. I'll meet you there."

"I did. _For the last two hours_. He's in the morgue now. Where the hell have you been?"

"I was tied up with a personal mat—" Milt paused. "Personal matter."

"So your personal matter trumps a dead guy?"

Milt didn't answer.

"Didn't you wear that suit yesterday?"

"Does Meredith have the preliminary done?" Milt asked.

"Yeah. She had it done an hour ago. When you weren't here."

"I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

Milt finished whatever he was doing and bent over as he turned to reach under his desk. Russ heard something plunk into his empty trash can, and when he stood up, two lower buttons on his shirt were unbuttoned. What the hell had he been doing? Milt button his shirt and tucked it in, then buttoned his jacket. Russ turned his attention to Milt's face, and found plenty that should concern him. Milt was perspiring despite how cool the office was, he was pale, and looked like he might vomit any moment. Russ' eyes traveled down to Milt's hands that tremored lightly. All these signs could mean Milt was sick, scared, or something worse.

"You look like shit. What happened to you this morning?"

"It's been a rough morning and it was personal. I'll meet you at the morgue, Russ."

He knew that tone. That was Milt's overtly 'get out of my office now' politeness. Fine. Russ decided the dead guy was more important, so he left a rumpled, strange behaving Milt to sort out his 'personal matter.'

He had a killer to catch, Milt could do all the damned sorting he well wanted.

* * *

Russ and Meredith's verbal combat was interrupted when Milt walked into the morgue. He looked a lot less frazzled than he had thirty minutes ago, but his rumpled suit told Russ he hadn't imagined the strange behavior from earlier.

Meredith didn't notice anything. She smiled sweetly at Milt, basking in a man she had a huge crush on - even if she knew it would never work.

"How are you today, Milt?" she chirped.

Russ glanced at him when he lied, "I'm doing well today, Meredith." Milt glanced at Russ. He didn't acknowledge the suspicious look on Russ' face, and instead turned back to Meredith, asking, "Have I missed anything?"

"Aside from Russ being an ass as usual?" she asked, shooting Russ daggers.

Milt diverted the brewing spat between the two, asking. "What things has the body told you?"

She walked over to the exam table where Russ was standing, and had been arguing over. She wasn't about to make it easy for him to get information about this victim – but Milt was another story.

"He was shot twice, once in the back of the skull and once in his lower back. Whoever shot him was quite the marksman, too. It logged in his spine and would have paralyzed him on the spot. I've sent bullets off to see if we can match them," she told Milt. "He had enough drugs on him to fund a small cartel. But the odd thing was he was clutching a watch in his hand. They couldn't collect it at the scene because rigor mortis had set in and I had to break the bones to get it out."

"May I see it?" Milt asked at the same time Russ berated, "And you're just now mentioning this?"

She smiled, telling Milt, "Of course _you_ can."

She retrieved the bagged watch and held it out to Milt. Russ snatched it away before he could take the bag and she glared at him. He ignored her. Milt surprised them both when he pulled the bag away from Russ.

"That's strange," Milt said.

"It's a watch," Russ told him. "People do still wear them, you know."

"It strange because it looks just like one I have."

"I'm sure lots of people own the type of watch you have, along with your suits, shoes, underwear…"

Milt smiled, "Maybe. I misplaced mine a few months ago and haven't been able to find. It belonged to my great-grandfather, and he wore it in the Revolutionary War. Although mine had this crack…" Milt stopped as his finger traced a crack on the face of the watch.

Russ looked up at Milt's face. Milt looked like he was seeing a ghost even as he stared intensely at the watch. He turned the watch over several times in his hands. What was he looking for on the watch?

He came out of his trance suddenly. "Meredith, be sure the lab swabs this for DNA" Milt handed her the watch back. "Did he have any I.D.?"

"I don't need an I.D." Russ answered. "His name is Corey Mansfield. He's a pain in the ass drug dealer that I can't keep in jail or off the streets."

"He's dead now. You're job here is done," Meredith quipped.

Russ sneered at her. She glared back.

"What kind of drugs?" Milt asked.

"If it's hit the streets, he's dealt it. I'm not surprised to see him in the morgue."

"He wasn't very likable?"

"He was well liked. In fact, it was his buyers that usually bailed him out of jail, so he could go on dealing to them."

Milt smiled. "Russ, you liked this guy."

"I did not!"

Milt smiled more. Even Meredith saw through Russ' lie.

"I did not like him. He just… He wouldn't sell to kids, ever. And he would snitch on anyone who did. I respected his _morals_."

"So maybe we're looking at a rival dealer?"

"Possible."

"Let me know when you have a list of suspects."

Russ watched him leave, before he turned back to Meredith. "Was he acting weird to you?"

"Milt? No. I can't say the same for you, but then, you always act weird, weird-o."

She turned her back on him and went to work on something. Russ heaved an annoyed sigh and walked out.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

Rain clouds had moved in around four that afternoon, bringing cold, steady rain. The weather forecast predicted rain would continue until well into the next afternoon and drive overnight lows into the upper forties. It was not an ideal time to be caught outside in boxers and a T-shirt.

But that was exactly where Milt found himself when he jerked awake. The thin line of dawn on the eastern horizon was hidden from view by the buildings around him. He was slumped against a cold dumpster, and with his senses returned, Milt began to shiver from being wet and cold. He sat up. That was a mistake, bringing on nausea. He rolled over onto a pile of trashbags and started vomiting, and vomiting, until there was nothing left in him to vomit except dry heaves. He was so weak now that he could barely roll away from the revolting puddle. His eyes slowly closed and he was almost asleep when a car sped through the alley, hitting a puddle. The shock of the cold, dirty water forced the dry heaves to return.

But they eventually passed. Milt knew he had to get home, so with every ounce of will power he could find, he staggered to his feet. The world began to sway, his head throbbed, and his lips went numb. Despite everything, he started walking, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. He had no idea where he was, but he would figure it out. He didn't think about how he got in the alley, he didn't think about why he couldn't remember anything from the night before. He only focused on getting home.

He had to get home before it was too late.

* * *

Behind the wheel of his SUV, Milt didn't to notice Russ staring at him; which had been doing since they left City Hall.

"You were late this morning, again. That makes four mornings in a row ."

Milt didn't comment.

"She must be pretty smokin' too. You show up looking like you had a party all night."

"There's no woman."

"Oh? A man?"

Milt glanced at him, saying in a measured tone, "No. Man. Either."

"You got something against homosexuals, _Milt_?"

"No. I have no interest in discussing my sex life with you."

"That doesn't tell me if it's a man or woman keeping you up all night."

"Neither. It's a—" Russ finished with Milt, "Personal matter."

Russ nodded. "So you keep saying."

Milt didn't offer anything more.

"Broken pipes?" Russ asked.

"What?"

"Your personal matter. Broken pipes? That place you live doesn't seem like the kind of place that would let broken pipes be broken for too long. What do you pay for that place? A couple thousand?"

Milt smiled. "This is really bothering you, isn't it?"

"You've been late four mornings in a row and when you come in, you look like you've been at an all-night kegger. Personally, don't give a damn what's going on with you, except that you're dragging the case down and that I do care about. So maybe pull your shit together and fix this personal matter that's affecting my work and making the rest of the team look bad."

Milt didn't say anything. Russ shook his head, looking out the window.

"I'll try," Milt quietly promised.

The quiet promise almost made Russ feel guilty for chewing Milt out.

Almost.

They turned at a corner and pulled into a vacant lot that was now occupied with a radio cars, an ambulance, and two crime scene technician vehicles. They got out and walked into the crowd of people ahead. At the center they found Detective Jacocks crouched next to a corpse. She looked over her shoulder.

"It's Jake Drummond."

Russ chuckled, stopping behind her. "Finally. Someone hated him enough to kill him."

"You do realize this is a murder, right?" Milton asked him.

Russ shrugged. "He's a drug dealer, and everyone hated this guy. I hated this guy. I at least didn't hate Corey Mansfield – he just annoyed me."

"It looks like he was shot in the back of the head and back, just like Corey, too," Jacocks told them. She stood up, pointing down at his hand. "But he seems to have gotten some of his killer."

Strands of short brown hair were wrapped around the man's fingers. Russ crouched down, looking at the evidence.

"Are you sure this is human?" Russ asked.

"No. That's Meredith's job. I just assumed it was human."

"Why? What do you see?" Milt asked.

Russ motioned at it. "Look how it's wrapped around his fingers? Have you ever seen hair this short get wrapped around fingers like this?"

"Not really, but that doesn't mean it couldn't," Milt answered.

Russ stood, clicking his tongue in thought. Abruptly, he turned and walked away.

Jacocks watched him and once he was out of earshot, she looked up at Milt. He was studying the murdered drug dealer.

"Are you feeling okay?" she quietly asked.

"Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"Lately you haven't really been acting like yourself, and you've been late a lot and you're never late, and yesterday morning Niblet said you were in the restroom throwing up. Font said two days ago you were in there throwing up right after you got in, too. We're worried."

"I'm fine. Thank you for the concern."

"COME ON, MILT! WE HAVE A KILLER TO FIND!" Russ bellowed from behind the people.

The two glanced back.

"How do you put up with that all day?"

Milt smiled down at her. "I count to ten in my head a lot."

She laughed. Milt headed back to his SUV. He found Russ waiting inside, rubbing his finger over his lips; his tell that something was bothering him. Milt pulled back onto the road and stopped.

"What is it?" Milt asked. "What's bothering you?"

"Do you realize that Corey was killed three blocks from here?"

Milt looked up. Briefly a spark of realization crossed his face, but it appeared to have been just a fleeting thought. "It's normal for serial killers to hunt in neighborhoods they're familiar with."

"You think this is a serial killer?"

"Not yet, but the pattern might indicate that."

Russ shook his head. "Not a serial killer."

"Even if it's a vigilante that could still be considered a serial killer."

"It's not. No. This is something else. There's a message in these two murders."

"A _message_?"

"The killer wants us to see something, that's why the watch was left on Corey, and that hair was wrapped around Jake's fingers. Almost every strand of hair had a root. I've seen enough hair pulled during a struggle and how did Jake get so many roots to come out? That doesn't seem strange to you?"

"If he got a hold of the hair, it's possible that—"

"And that hair was short, as short as your hair, so how did he get so much in his hand? I also didn't see any bruises, cuts, scrapes on him, did you? Where's all the other signs of a struggle? And what do you bet that Meredith is going to find that bullet in the back paralyzed him. How the hell does a paralyzed man struggle enough to get a handful of hair?"

Milt started driving.

"Where are we going?" Russ asked.

"We have to figure out who would have gained the most from Jake and Corey being dead. Jumping to conclusions won't get us closer to that answer."

"This doesn't feel like it's someone who wanted anything from them."

"Someone who wants to send a message."

"Yes."

"But you don't know what the message could be."

"No, but—"

"So until you figure that out, we should probably follow leads for people who gained something from their deaths, shouldn't we?"

Russ turned a cold glare on Milt. "I hate you."

Milt smiled, not taking the words seriously.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

Just before dawn, Milt woke up in the middle of the weed choked yard of a warehouse, wearing only his boxers and a T-shirt again. He had a new track mark on his arm, throbbing head, nausea, cotton-mouth, trembling hands, weakness, cold sweats, and numb lips. To his dismay, tingling skin and blurry vision had joined this morning's game of 'where is Milton?'

He clambered to his feet with the grace of a new born calf. Once he was on his feet, he staggered over to the warehouse to lean against the wall for support. All of this made the nausea and headache double intensity, and his blurry vision seemed to have gotten worse in those few minutes it took to get to the wall. Milt closed his eyes, hoping some of the symptoms would at least lessen enough for him to walk. The nausea finally did, and when he opened his eyes, his vision had cleared some. Dawn's light brightened the world from behind the warehouse – in his head he noted that was east – and several miles in the distance he could make out the towers of downtown Battle Creek. Thinking of walking that distance in just a T-shirt and boxers, on top of how sick he felt, almost defeated Milt.

Until anger welled up inside him. When this had begun, Russ was his first suspect. But in just a few days, his suspicion of him vanished. Russ began showing honest frustration with Milt's tardiness, appearance, and demeanor. Not to mention Russ was far too good of a detective to take time to pull some stupid prank in the middle of a murder investigation.

That brought Milt back to no suspects, at first. After Russ was dropped, he thought that whoever was behind knocking him out every night and stranding him further and further from home might just be trying to humiliate him. But when he submitted an unmarked sample of his urine and it came back positive for heroin and a dangerous level of sedative that thought changed. This person was up to something far more nefarious, which led Milt to believe that the person knew damned well that the further he had to walk back to his home or the office every morning, the greater Milt's chances increased of dying before he got back. And this morning, that made him angry enough to re-fuel his will to live.

With renewed determination, Milt started walking.

* * *

Russ walked into Milt's office. The man didn't look up from scribbling notes on a notepad or typing at his computer. Russ waited for him to acknowledge him but it was clear Milt's attention was on whatever he was doing.

"We have a lead on the Jake Drummond case. Someone called and said they saw him with someone the night he was killed."

"Good."

Russ waited for Milt to get up, but he didn't. "So are we going?"

"You've got a handle on it."

Russ was surprised by that. "You're skipping out on a murder investigation?"

In an uncommon condescending tone, Milt shot back, "I do have work for the FBI I have to do sometimes, but if you're incapable of handling this, I can go." He looked up at Russ.

Anger was a new emotion Russ hadn't seen on Milt before. What he didn't know was who that anger was directed at – him or someone else.

"I can handle it. So who pissed in your—"

"Russ, unless you have something about this case that needs my immediate attention, you can show yourself out."

"You… You're kicking me out of your office?"

Milt stared at him.

Russ almost laughed at how absurd the moment was. He shook his head a little. "You know, you've been acting really strange for days now. It's almost like you're hiding something _else_. Like maybe you know something about these murders?"

"I don't know anything more than you do about the murders. I didn't know those drug dealers, and I don't know who wanted them dead. That's your job. I have mine right now."

Russ mulled over that statement, trying to decide how much was truth and how much was lie. But in the end he shrugged.

"Fine. I don't need your help anyway." And he left.

Milt didn't waste time going back to his project.

* * *

Commander Guziewicz walked into the empty bullpen. Coming in before her detectives arrived gave her time to think about things, process the previous day's cases, and prepare for trouble her detectives got themselves into or whatever human atrocities would befall them that day.

When she stepped foot in her office, however, that peaceful feeling shattered. There could be only one reason M.E. Meredith Oberling was sat in a chair in front of her desk, clutching a folder to her chest, looking half-scared. Something terrible was brewing, and it was likely going to take her by complete surprise.

"Good morning, Meredith," Guziewicz said as she removed her coat and hung it up on the coat stand with her purse.

"No. It's not."

Guziewicz turned around. Meredith locked eyes with her. Guziewicz walked around her desk and sat down in her chair. She braced to deal with whatever Meredith had stumbled on.

"What's happened?"

Meredith looked down and a tear escaped. "It's bad, Kim. It's really bad."

"What happened?" Guziewicz repeated.

Meredith looked back up. "The ballistics results on the first drug dealer and the DNA from both cases came in last night. I… Couldn't I just pretend I never got it? Please, just let's pretend it never got here."

Guziewicz exhaled slowly. Meredith would never compromise a case but then, she hadn't had one yet that involved her co-workers. It was the only thing Guziewicz could imagine that would make her want to compromise her integrity like this.

"Who does the ballistics and DNA say? Which detective?"

Meredith grimaced. "It's not… It's not one of ours, Kim. It's worse."

Guziewicz inhaled, exhaled, and nodded once. She held her hand out for the file.

Meredith slowly released it to her. Guziewicz opened the file and began reading…

#

Sort of awake and wishing mornings didn't come so soon in the middle of investigations, Russ shuffled through the front door of city hall and inside. He glanced into Milt's office as he passed. The FBI agent wasn't there, but a strangeness had overtaken over his office since Russ had seen it yesterday afternoon. Russ stop to stare into the office for a minute. There was a clear Dry-Erase board that had writing and Post-It notes covering it. His normally clean and tidy desk was strewn with papers and case files. So maybe Milt had been given an FBI case that was more important than two dead drug dealers.

Russ turned and walked into the bullpen.

Holly was at her desk, shuffling paperwork. The two exchanged a smile.

"Good morning," Holly cheerily greeted.

He smiled at her. "Morning. Good." He almost kicked himself. That made him sound like he'd lost all ability to talk.

Yet, Holly laughed it off as a joke. "Busy day today?"

"Depends on what we find out about the dealers, I guess. Or whoever decided they were better off dead."

"And why?"

"And why. Yeah." Russ walked over to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Russ," he heard Guziewicz say.

He turned. She was standing in her door.

"A minute in my office?" she asked.

"Be right there."

She went back into her office. He looked at Holly.

"Am I in trouble?" he whispered.

She shrugged. "I don't know. She called Font in as soon as he got in a few minutes ago."

Russ left his coffee on his desk and walked into the office. Font was sitting in a chair before Guziewicz desk. She motioned to the open chair next to him for Russ.

"I haven't done anything to be in trouble for – yet."

"Russ, sit."

Begrudgingly he obeyed.

She straightened her posture and the men looked at each other. She was about to say something that made her uncomfortable and likely to make them uncomfortable.

"I've been unable to reach Agent Chamberlain all morning, so Russ I need—"

"That's not a surprise. This _personal matter_ he keeps having is becoming a pain in the ass." He grinned. "Are you finally going to do something about him being late for the last nine days? You would absolutely be all over me if I pulled that. Not to mention he always looks like he's just come off of a night of binge drinking. I tried to tell you that he—"

She closed her eyes to calmly ordered, "Russ, shut up."

His grin faded, but he obeyed.

"I need you to arrest Milton Chamberlain."

Russ laughed, at first believing this was a joke. Again, not even a smile flicked on Guziewicz's lips.

"Are you serious?" Font asked her.

"Yes. I'm serious."

"What's the charge?" Russ asked.

"Murder. Evidence from the Drummond and Mansfield cases trace back to him. The ballistics from the Mansfield case match his FBI issued sidearm. The DNA from the hair and the wrist watch, also matched Milt's. He is now the prime suspect in these murders."

Russ stood up and looked around the office.

Guziewicz looked away when his eyes stopped on her and continued. "Since you have animosity with Agent Chamberlain, this shouldn't be a difficult task for you."

"Milt didn't do this, Kim. He's being set up."

That raised Guziewicz and Font's eyebrows.

"You're defending him?" Font asked.

"He didn't know either of the dealers. Where's his motive?"

"Motive or not, Russ, forensics implicate him."

He considered that. "Okay, I'll go pick him up, but only if you can buy me some time. I need a motive and to verify the evidence."

"Once you find him, you'll have seventy-two hours. That's all I can give you."

"Okay. Come on, Font." Russ stormed out of the office.

Font looked at Guziewicz. "I can't be there when Milt's arrested. He didn't do this, Commander."

"This isn't going to be easy," Guziewicz told him, "but you know Russ won't give up until he finds the truth, regardless of whether it means Milt is guilty or innocent. And, if Milt is in custody when another drug dealer dies by his gun or with his DNA on him, that would prove Milt is being framed. I suspect that's what's happening; I think Russ does too."

"What if Russ takes things too far? I can't stop him, you know that."

"He won't."

"He hates Milt, ma'am."

"He dislikes Milt; he hates murderers. The forensic evidence may have been planted, or not, he knows that."

"He didn't act like it."

"He asked for time to prove the evidence right or wrong. He's concerned it's lying. Back him up, Font. He only has seventy-two hours."

He nodded, then followed.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

Depending on the day, Battle Creek Tower could look like a warm inviting urban dwelling or an imposing paramilitary complex – add some rain or snow, and the latter was the definitive impression. Russ stopped his car at the gate arm for the parking garage and began honking the car horn until a security guard finally appeared. He flashed his badge at the plump man.

"We're looking for a murder suspect. We think he parked his car here."

"This is private property," the man stated. "You need a warrant."

Russ motioned him to come closer. The man came a little closer. So Russ motioned him closer. The man came within a few inches of the door.

""Here's my warrant." Russ held up his fist in the man's face. "Do I need to get out so you can read it?"

The man stared at him. Russ began to think he was actually going to have to get out to show the man his four-knuckle warrant. The man walked over to the card reader for the gate and swiped his card. Russ drove in and began to slowly cruise around the garage in search of Milt's SUV.

"He didn't do this," Font said.

"Yeah."

"He's being framed."

"Uh-huh."

"You don't believe that, do you?"

"I believe that's his SUV."

Russ stopped behind it, looking at the black vehicle.

"His vehicle is still here." Russ dialed his cell phone.

"That doesn't mean he's home."

Russ drove around to a door marked ENTRANCE and parked in a handicap spot. He got out, followed by Font. The door opened to two elevators on one side, a door to the STAIRS on the other side, and another door that read MAINTENANCE. Russ pushed the elevator call button as he tried making a call again.

"What apartment does he live in?"

"I don't know."

Russ gave him a stern look. Font sighed.

"F19."

"He still isn't answering his cell phone, so we're going to need to get into his apartment. You get off on the first floor and get the super. I'll meet you up there."

"We can't just break into his place."

"We have a warrant."

"No we don't."

"We will before we done, if that's what we need."

"He didn't do this, Russ!"

The elevator opened and Russ stepped on. He pushed the door open button, staring at Font. Several minutes passed that they stared at each other. With a heavy sigh and heftier desire not to carry out his sworn duty, Font stepped onto the elevator. Russ pushed the first floor button.

"He didn't do this," Font quietly insisted.

"Keep telling yourself that."

"You know I'm right."

"I know that two drug dealers are dead. Ballistics and DNA point to Milton. Do you know more than that?"

The elevator stopped at the first floor. Font walked off, but suddenly stopped right outside, holding open the door with his arm.

"No, but my instinct says he didn't do this."

Russ leaned forward and tapped a button. He looked Font in the eye and waited.

Font finally dropped his arm and the doors closed. He stared at the closed doors for several minutes, torn between doing as he was told, and leaving Russ to deal with this alone. Finally he turned and walked around the corner, searching for the building supervisor's door or a front desk to help him locate that person.

* * *

The building supervisor opened the door for Russ and Font, allowing them into Milt Chamberlain's apartment. Font had been here a couple times, and the shock of the place had worn off. Russ hadn't, however, and it was hard for him to hide his surprise at just how nice of a place Milt lived. The apartment was stunning, one of the more expensive apartments in the building. Dark stained wood floors covered most of the apartment floors. The kitchen was a chef's dream: gleaming, updated appliances, dark cherry wood cabinets, and granite countertops. It didn't even look like it had ever been used. Everything in the apartment was expensive, tasteful, and spoke of someone with worldly experience.

Russ began poking through Milt's belongings, trying to get a better feel of the potential criminal he was trying to find.

"He's a good tenant," the super told them. "He's paid for a year in rent. The other tenants really like him too. It's been great having an FBI agent in the building, too. That's really kept the complaints down around here."

"Anyone on his floor that didn't like him or have a grudge against him?" Russ asked.

"Who would have a grudge against Milt? Or not like him? He's a great guy."

"Uh-huh," Russ answered in his negative way.

"Do you have video cameras in the building?" Font asked.

"Only in the lobby. I can get those for you if you can tell me what days you need."

"We need—"

Russ cut Font off, "We'll let you know. You can go now."

"Lock the door on your way out," told them on his way out. He added before he shut the door. "I really hope you find him. I'll miss him."

"So, what do you want me to do?" Font asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Your job, maybe?" Russ answered, glancing at him.

"He didn't do this!"

"As you've repeated for the last half hour. You're like a broken record."

"You hate him. You want him to be guilty."

"I don't hate him. I don't like him. And I don't trust him. And if he's guilty, he's guilty."

"And if he's innocent?"

Russ smiled at Font. "If he's innocent, whoever is really doing this is going to have a really bad day. Now, can you maybe do your job?"

Russ promising that the real killer was going to wish Russ had never found him made Font feel like he was at least trying to help Milt. Font began searching the living room and working his way toward the back.

Russ walked into the kitchen and began looking through drawers. Everything in the kitchen was neat, orderly, very much Milt. Very annoyingly Milt. Russ didn't really expect Milton to be a slob, but also not quite this neat and tidy. Did this guy ever relax?

In one drawer he came across something he wasn't expecting. There was a box of small syringes with capped needles, a box of rubbing alcohol swabs, a device that snapped out a needle when he pressed the button, a jar with some strange looking strips of paper, and a device that looked like the papers were made for. He looked the device over, but nothing told Russ what it was used for.

Russ worked his way to the refrigerator. He didn't really think the refrigerator held any clue as to what happened to Milt, but curiosity was egging him on. Did Milton Chamberlain eat like a normal human, or was there something viler in there – like caviar or pâté? What he found was a lot of delivery leftovers, a case of beer, a half-gallon of milk, and some condiments. Maybe he didn't know how to cook. Russ felt a little better about himself – did he have a skill that Milt didn't?

He noticed three vials behind a bottle of ketchup. Russ picked one up and while most of the label meant nothing to him, the word _insulin_ did. His mind latched onto moments during the last week and a half, since the first murder was discovered, and pieces begin to rapidly click together: Milt late to work, how strung out and sickly he looked when he first got there, that first morning when Russ walked in on him doing something he couldn't see. Russ' assumption for what Milt was up to was wrong. Milt hadn't come to work hung over or strung out. Realizing what had been making Milt so sick made Russ realize just how much worse Milt's personal matter was. Something kept making him miss his—

"Russ! RUSS!" Font screamed from the back of the apartment.

Russ put the vial back and ran towards Font's voice. He was in the back bedroom, leaning over the bed and trying to wake up Milt.

"Milt, wake up. Come on, wake up! Russ, his breathing is really shallow. He's cold and sweating. I think he overdosed. Milt wake up, man. Come on, wake up!"

Russ noticed a needle stuck in Milt's arm, along with marks from several more injections. He had never known a diabetic who gave themselves insulin in their arm, but then again, he had seen that brown residue in the needle too many times in his career. Another piece of Milt's behavior suddenly fell into place – but that only led Russ down another rabbit hole of doubt and questions. Russ suddenly shook himself from being a detective; Milt was dying in front of him. The case could wait.

"Go back to the car and get the naloxone kit, and call an ambulance on the way down."

"Milt, wake up!" Font yelled at Milt.

Russ yanked Font back. "Go get the naloxone kit! Call an ambulance. Tell them we have a diabetic that may have overdosed on heroin. I don't know how much insulin to give him."

"How do you know he's diabetic?"

"He is dying, Font! Move it!"

Font ran out of the room, dialing his phone at the same time.

Russ turned around. He spotted a box of tissues on the bedside table and pulled a couple out. Carefully he pulled the needle from Milt's arm, wrapped it in tissue, and sat it down on the table. He pushed another wad of tissues over the resulting bleeding puncture wound. His eyes wondered across the other puncture wounds on Milt's arm. His eyes traveled to the dresser. There was a small bag of powder sitting on his dresser, an empty vial of insulin, and a used syringe and needle like he'd found in the kitchen drawer.

The vindictive devil in him was hoping he had been right all along, but the determined detective he was doubted everything this scene was saying about Milt. Again Russ made the conscious decision to forget about all of that for the moment. He had to focused on his first responder training and keeping his partner alive.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5_

His listened to two people talk as they passed nearby, but he didn't open his eyes. He knew that when he did open he was going to be somewhere he didn't know, far from Battle Creek, and he was too exhausted and weak to keep fighting. Whoever wanted him did, he was okay with letting them win, just as long as he didn't have to move.

He began to drift back into sleep when he heard someone to his left, very close to his left, cough, and then paper rustled. That was new.

Milt opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. He didn't know how long he stared at the ceiling, but it gradually occurred to him that was not the ceiling of his apartment, but he'd seen it before. He recalled that the acoustic tiles in the bull pen and city hall looked like this, each one punctured with holes in unfamiliar constellations. Had he passed out at work? Or had he been dumped at work? He couldn't remember anything from the night before.

When he moved his arm to rub his eyes, something solid grabbed his wrist and held it. Milt looked down. For a moment he couldn't grasp that his wrist was handcuffed to the bed – to a hospital bed. Now he was confused. Where was he?

"About time you woke up," Russ said somewhere on his left.

Milt turned his head.

Russell sat in a chair next to the room door, reading the newspaper.

"Why am I in the hospital? And why am I handcuffed to the bed?"

"You overdosed on cocaine." Russ was folding the newspaper when Milt looked at him. He almost smiled, adding, "And when murderers are admitted to the hospital, we handcuff them to the bed, especially if they have the resources to be a flight risk. Like. You."

Milt's head was shaking before any words came. "I am not a drug addict, Russ, and I haven't murdered anyone."

"The hell you haven't!" Russ exploded. He leapt to his feet, throwing his newspaper on the floor. "You killed those drug dealers in cold blood, Milton. Cold blood! Why? They wouldn't give you the stuff for free? Couldn't blackmail them into it?"

"I am not an addict and I haven't murdered anyone."

"You've never killed anyone? Ever?"

Milt hesitated. He wanted to repeat the word, but he couldn't lie. Instead he repeated, "I did not murder those two dealers, Russell."

"But you killed them."

That he hadn't done. "NO! I didn't kill them, I didn't murder them, and I am not a drug addict!"

"But you're a liar."

"I am not lying."

"You've lied ever since you got here. You're lying now. You and I both know it."

"I AM NOT LYING TO YOU!"

Russ slammed his hands down on the bed railing. "Then why were you half dead in your apartment with a needle in your arm? How did you get these track marks, Milt?" Russ grabbed Milt's arm and twisted it to show the track marks.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No, I _don't_ know."

"And how long have you not known any of this? You had enough heroin in your system that if we hadn't found you when we did, you would have slipped into a coma and died, _Milton_. None of this sounds like an accident so far; it sounds like a drug addict whose lost control."

Milt didn't answer.

"Come on, man. Give me some sort of excuse. Give me some reason why you practically committed suicide just to beat a murder rap."

He couldn't help it when he snapped back, "Why do you even care? You hate me, remember? You only accept my help because you were told you had to. You never even said thank you for saving your life when you were kidnapped. You accuse me of getting anything I want, but the truth is you are just bad. Your Commander, and the other detectives, they listen to you, they believe you, and now I'm here, stuck with you, and you are going to do everything you can to hang me from the highest tree. I'm done talking to you, Russ. I want a lawyer."

Russ stood up, straightened his jacket, and sat back down in his chair. He crossed one leg over the other and placed his hands in his lap. And almost smiled.

"Don't get me wrong, Milt, I do want you gone, and I don't like you, and I will never trust you. But you aren't a murderer, Milt, and I don't believe you're an addict, either. But I had to press you, I had to know. I'd expect nothing less of you if I was handcuffed to that bed, and you were sitting here."

Milt closed his eyes for a minute and sighed. He was tired, his head was beginning to hurt, and he was starving.

"Where's the call button? I need food."

"They have you on an I.V."

"Russ, I need—"

"Do you want me to find out whose setting you up to look like a drug addict and murderer, or not?"

Milt looked back at Russ. "Yes."

"If you want my help, Milton, you can't lie to me or tell me some half-assed lie. If you want my help to bail you out of this, you are going to tell me what I want to know. What you should have told me the first day we were partnered."

Even though he guessed that someday this moment was going to arrive, he never suspected it would happen like this. So he sighed and prepared to tell the truth.

"Okay, Russ. The reason I was sent to Battle Creek is—"

"What?" Russ asked, interrupting him. "I don't give a shit why you're in Battle Creek right now. Jesus! Did the drugs or missing insulin shots get to your head?"

"I never told you I have diabetes."

"I know now, but you should have mentioned that sometime before now. If I hadn't found your insulin, with as low as your blood sugar was when the paramedics got there, you would have died. That's not exactly something you keep from people watching your back to keep you from dying, you know?"

"I've never told anyone I worked with."

"Yeah, well, that's changed now, because the whole office knows. Now, let's talk about dead drug dealers. It appears someone out there doesn't like you, which I'm sure is quite a shock to your ego, but I like the thought." Russ flashed a cold smile. "Unfortunately, however, it's my job to make sure you don't end up on the person's recently deceased list, so tell me what you really know about these murders. Starting with the first day you showed up two hours late, in the same suit from the day before, and looking like shit. And do not tell me it's a personal matter, Milt. We are beyond that."

"The night before I went to sleep at home, but that morning I woke up in a crack house across town. I cannot remember how I got there, but I did notice I had a couple track marks in my arm. The dry cleaners was close by, and so was my gym. I…" Shame-faced Milt admitted, "I broke into the cleaners and took my suit from the night before."

"Am I going to have to deal with a breaking and entering charge, too?"

"No. I went back, paid for the lock, and installed it for the owner. He didn't want to press charges when I told him why I had broken in."

"And when I walked into your office that morning, you were giving yourself insulin? That's why you looked so bad."

"Yeah. I usually give myself a shot at 10 at night and 6 in the morning. Most days that's all I need, but when I miss those two shots, I know it. Things go from bad to worse fast."

"Every morning you've been late, and looked like that, you woke up somewhere? Was it the same place each time?"

Milt didn't answer.

"Did you or didn't you?"

"That's… When my hyperglycemia becomes severe, I lose memories. The only mornings that I remember most of are the first three times because I was close enough to the office to get a shot in time."

"What do you remember?"

"The first time I woke up in crack house on the east side, the second time in a bar bathroom on the east side also, and the third time in an alley. When I try to remember the other places, I just get pieces. I remember a parking lot with lots of weeds. There was a road that was in bad shape, maybe it hadn't been used in a while. I remember a white brick building. And a park with bicyclists."

"Can you remember how to get to those first three places?"

Milt shook his head. "I can't really tell you how I found the dry cleaners the first time. I just remember suddenly being there."

Russ frowned at how unhelpful Milt's recollection was. Milt didn't apologize; if he couldn't remember, he couldn't remember.

"Who would do this to you? I know you think everyone loves you, but obviously that's not true."

Milt smiled a little at Russ' subtle jab. "A couple days, after it happened again, I started looking at people I've arrested. There are twelve criminals I cannot account for their whereabouts, and they haven't checked in with their probation officers."

"You know, this could be someone who you could account for."

"Yes, Russ, I'm aware of that. But that list is hundreds of people. I had to start with something manageable."

"Yeah. I can see how doing this by yourself and not asking the detectives right across the hall for any help would make you want to start with a _manageable_ list."

The two men stared at each other for a moment. Deciding not to give into Russ' antagonizing, Milt continued. "So I need to find these twelve first."

" _I_ need to find these twelve first. You're about to be under arrest."

"I'm not… You said I was accused of murders."

"Accused, yeah, but I never said we actually booked you on them. But I only have another day and some change to figure out what's going on here, so don't get your hopes up. I need your sidearm to compare against the ballistics report. Where is it?"

"In the safe at my apartment."

"What's the combination?"

"I'm not giving you the combination."

"I need to check your gun, Milt."

"Then take me back to my apartment, I'll get it out, you can check it."

Russ leaned on the rail, glaring at him. "We do not have time for your paranoia. Give me the God damn combination."

The two stared at each other for several minutes. Milt looked away when a nurse opened the door and walked in. picked up a pad of paper from the nearby bed stand and began writing. The nurse checked his vitals, changed the I.V. bag, and left, only to return with a tray and a covered plate.

She turned to him. "Do you need anything else?"

"No. Thank you."

"Are you sure?" she asked. "I could get—"

"He's fine. Leave," Russ ordered.

She shot Russ a glare as she left the room.

Finished writing, Milt tore off the page and held it out to Russ. He yanked it back before Russ could grab it.

"Only the gun and box of ammo. That's all, Russ. Nothing else is to be touched or looked at."

"On my mother's honor."

"Which she doesn't have."

Russ snatched the paper from Milt. "No, she does not. I saw you had a board up in your room and files all over your desk. Are those your suspects?"

"Yes."

Russ walked toward the door.

"Russ," Milt said.

He stopped in the door, looking back.

"Thanks for your help."

Russ smiled and Milt knew a zinger was about to hit. "Don't thank me yet, Milt. I may be a good detective, but I'll be the first to let you know if I found out you've lied to me, again, and I will hang you from the highest tree."

Russ closed the door behind him.

Milt sighed and then looked at the tray of food. He moved up in bed and pulled the cover off. He was too hungry to care if the food looked appealing or not.

* * *

Russ sat at an interrogation table, staring at the GLOCK G23 that lay on a cloth before him. If ever there was a time he wanted an inanimate object to magically speak, now would be one of those times. Russ turned his attention away from it for a moment and strapped on some vinyl gloves before opening boxes of ammunition. Five boxes were full, which made sense – it's not like Milt did a lot of shooting in Battle Creek. The sixth box, however, was missing bullets. Russ picked up the gun and released the clip. He looked up when the door opened.

Guziewicz walked in and stood next to him. "You were at his apartment a while. Please tell me you didn't go through that entire safe before you brought this here."

"Tempting, but I really didn't care about his safe. I looked over the scene again."

"Did it tell you anything?"

"I don't spend enough on suits?"

She smiled. "Besides his salary is bigger than yours, did it tell you anything else?"

Russ shook his head. He started unloading the bullets from the clip.

"And the gun?"

"He wrote there should be seven boxes of ammo in the safe. I found six. And this one," Russ pointed at the box, "is missing four bullets."

"Two for each dealer." She sat down in the chair on the other side of the table.

He asked, "How are the others doing on the list of people who don't like Milt?"

"You enjoyed saying that, didn't you?"

He flashed her an ornery smile.

"Most have been found and they aren't even Michigan, but there were three that couldn't be accounted for. Font, Jacocks, and Funkhauser are trying to track them down still."

The magazine held fifteen bullets, and fifteen were counted out on the table.

"That's fifteen bullets," she pointed out.

Russ nodded. "It is. So the four from the clip were replaced, and that would make Milt think he'd replaced them, if he'd known to look."

She sighed. "This keeps getting worse for him."

"Maybe not." Russ picked up the bullets and looked at the caps on each of them. "These two bullets, the last that were in the clip, have words etched on the casing."

She pulled on a gloves and took the two from him. "They each have words etched on them. Back and Pay."

"Pay back."

"But if these were at the bottom, he'd never notice these in the clip."

"I don't think they were meant for him to notice, not right away. I think whoever is behind this wanted him to go to jail first, and by the time these were noticed, if they were at all, it would take Milt half the rest of his life just to get the case re-opened."

"Do you really think whoever this is wants him to go to jail?"

"The murders and planted evidence suggests so. The blackouts and missing insulin doses suggests they were fine with killing him too."

"I guess there's someone out there who dislikes Milt more than you."

"This isn't dislike. This is hate. This person hates him enough to get him arrested, and if that fails, kill him. At least all I've ever wanted to do was throw something at him."

Font burst into the room. "I found something from one of the suspects, Frank Okla, and… You gotta see this." And he was gone.

Guziewicz and Russ followed.

#

Russ and Guziewicz found the detectives and Holly surrounding Font's computer. He glanced up at them.

A website had been pulled up and the main focus was a streaming video of an empty warehouse room.

"How does that tell you it's this guy?" Russ asked.

Font scrolled down. There were more video clips below and Font played the last one. The video was probably shot with a body camera and showed the person climbing stairs to a door marked FLOOR 19. The person's arms came in and out of the camera view. They were large, hairy, meaty arms. Not fat arms, but strong, colossal arms of a large, likely dangerous, man.

The door slowly opened and both directions were checked – Russ recognized the hallway. He was on Milt's floor. The camera went to Milt's apartment door and two hands picked the locks, then slipped in. The person went across the room to the refrigerator and pulled out four vials of insulin. The person injected each vial with something from a syringe, shook them, and returned them to the refrigerator. The person went into Milt's bedroom and injected liquid in the vial sitting on his dresser. In the distance the locks on the door could be heard.

The person made a dash for a hall closet – this person had been in the apartment before and knew exactly where he could hide. Through the slats of the closet the video watched Milt come in. He tossed his keys into a dish on a table by the door before walking past as he loosened his tie. He returned to get some food from his refrigerator, warmed it up, and went into his living room. He sat down in front of the television, kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on the coffee table, and channel surfed, stopping on a La Crosse match.

Things went to even creepier from there. The person slipped out of the closet and went to the bedroom closet. In the closet the camera view lowered to the safe on the floor and the person spun the combination, leaving no doubt Milt wasn't the only person who knew the combination. The person took Milt's gun out of the safe, checked the clip, put it back in the gun, and cocked the gun. The person went back down the hall and crept up behind Milt, who had no idea he was there. How could he? There was no indication that someone had broken into his apartment, nothing was out of place, and he was probably used to being alone in his apartment.

The gun was raised into view and the person made like they shot Milt three times in the head. Then they backed down the hall and into the closet – and the video cut off.

"That isn't the creepiest one, either," Jacocks told Russ.

"Show me."

The next video started with the person walking up to Milt's bed. Milt didn't react to the person like he should have. He must have been getting ready for bed when the drug laced insulin kicked in because he was wearing his briefs, a T-shirt, and one sock. He grinned and spoke, but this video had no audio. He had an insulin syringe and needle in his hand that the person took from him and returned to the dresser, next to the drugged insulin vial. The person put an arm around Milt, who was chatting him up like his best friend. They left the apartment and went to the parking garage where the person put Milt into his SUV and then started driving. Minutes passed and they ended up in an alley. The person got Milt out of the SUV into pouring rain. The person sat Milt down by a dumpster.

The person moved down and put a tourniquet around Milt's arm, and when a vein showed, injected what was likely heroin. It took only seconds for the drug to hit Milt and knock him out. The person reached down and ripped a handful of hair from Milt's head, then left him in the rain. As he drove down the alley, the video cut off.

"What is this asshole's last known address?" Russ growled.

"An abandon warehouse on the south side. Uniforms checked it out, they didn't find anything," Detective Jacocks answered, "and all his previous addresses came up with nothing."

"Frank Okla is somewhere in Battle Creek," Russ told them, "We have to find him."

"He wouldn't still be in Battle Creek, not after Milt was arrested," Niblet argued. "That's what he wanted, I thought."

"No," Russ corrected him. "What I think he wanted was Milt arrested or dead, possibly both. And we only have twenty-eight hours to find him."

"Why twenty-eight hours?" Jacocks asked.

"Milt hasn't technically been arrested," Guziewicz told him. "Yet."

The detectives scrambled to find Frank Okla.

Russ picked up Okla's folder from Font's desk and sat down at his own desk. He pulled up the website and read through the file as he played the remainder of the video files. This stalker documented every night he dumped a drugged Milt Chamberlain, shot him up with heroin, and left him to die. Russ' grump meter peaked at its 'make my day, punk' height – Okla was going to jail, if he didn't give Russ a good reason to shoot him first.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6_

"A Uni spotted Frank Okla!" Niblet said as he burst into the bullpen, "going north on Division."

In a scramble, everyone ran out of the bullpen. Except Russ. He was still studying the videos, focusing particularly on the one that showed the empty room. Guziewicz came to her office door.

"What is it?"

"This guy has an end game. He didn't want to be found before Milt was officially arrested for the murders, or dead."

"It's going to be one hell of a chase then."

"Why would… Why would he be showing an empty warehouse?"

She walked over, watching the empty room with him.

"Maybe Milt knows."

Russ considered that. He stood up, grabbing his jacket. "I'm going check that warehouse out again. Get Milt into interrogation and show him this place."

"He wouldn't remember it if he blacked out."

"He told me he can remember some things, Kim." Russ headed for the door. "And this _is_ Milt we're talking about."

She smiled a little. For someone who didn't trust Milt, he was sure putting a lot of trust in him right now.

* * *

Despite how calm he appeared on the outside, Milt's stomach was tied in knots. He wanted to know how he'd gotten here, and how the forensic evidence had betrayed him. He wanted to trust Russ implicitly, but with their track record he couldn't. And what if Russ wasn't as good of a detective as Milt gave him credit for? His life, a career he had rose above adversity to build, would be gone.

All these thoughts ran around Milt's head as he sat quietly in the interrogation room, staring at the table one hand was handcuffed to. He also didn't know why he'd been brought from booking to the interrogation room. The officer said he didn't know what was going on but Commander Guziewicz asked Milt moved to the room for a while. She must have some plan – or he was officially being arrested for murder now.

He looked up to watch Guziewicz and Holly walk into the room. Holly was carrying a laptop and wireless mouse. The two women pulled chairs up to each side of him and sat down. Holly opened the laptop on the table and put the mouse next to Milt's free hand. The screen came up and a website appeared, with a streaming video of an empty warehouse room.

"What is this?"

"Do you remember a Frank Okla?" Guziewicz asked him.

"Yeah. He tried to rob a bank with three other men, but the police and FBI surrounded the place before they could get out. They made demands and threatened to kill people if they weren't met. They did kill two people with heroin – turns out their guns weren't real. Is he behind this?"

"Yes. Font was looking for him and found this website, somehow. I don't ask how Font finds things on the Internet anymore. The other videos on this website…" She looked him in the eye. "He broke into your apartment and laced your insulin. We sent one of the vials to be tested to find out what he'd put in them. It was acetylpromazine, but since you already got the drug results back from a sample from a M.C. Banks you already knew that, didn't you?"

Milt nodded.

"Thought as much. I spoke to the doctor who treated you in the hospital, I left out details, but he's seen heroin addicts who were diabetic die because they would get high and take their insulin too late, or pass out and not take it at all."

Milt closed his eyes a minute. "And when he left me miles from my apartment or the office, he was hoping that even if I did wake up, I wouldn't make it back alive."

"Russ thinks so," Holly admitted.

Milt agreed with Russ' thought, because it made too much sense.

"Why would this guy want to do this to you?" Guziewicz asked.

"He claimed he had nothing to do with the death of the two people when he arrested. He tried to make a deal on that to reduce his jail time. I was the arresting agent and I wouldn't listen, because it wasn't my decision. The District Attorney pushed for robbery and aggravated murder, but the judge gave him aggravated robbery and accessory to murder, and a ten-year sentence."

"He's mad because he was in jail for ten years?"

"No. He's mad because in those ten years his wife divorced him, he lost custody and visitation rights to his two boys, and then one of the robbers with him escaped and killed his family. He has written letters to the FBI, newspapers, and the governor, and has not been shy about that he blames me for all that happened."

"So this is revenge?"

Milt nodded.

"This room is currently the only live feed on the website and Russ thinks this place has something to do with what Okla has planned. Is there anything in here that looks familiar? Maybe he took you there and you might remember something about the place?"

Milt focused on the video, and he tried hard, desperately even, to drudge up some memory of this non-descript view of an empty area.

* * *

Russ made his way through the vast warehouse listed as Frank Okla's last known residence. So far nothing stood out. He came to one end and stopped, staring across the weed choked yard at two outer buildings. One was in as bad shape as the warehouse. The other, though, now that one grabbed his attention. That one was vandalized, but all the windows had been boarded up. Russ walked across the open yard to the building. He began circling it, trying to find some way inside.

The sound of an approaching car made him duck behind a pile of rotting railroad ties. He pressed into the corner the ties and wall of the building made, and peeked around the side of the ties. A car sped into the yard and disappeared inside the warehouse. Russ was about to get up to investigate when he saw someone moving inside. Frank Okla ran out of the warehouse to the building Russ was hiding next to. Russ flattened against the wall and listened. He heard Okla unlock a door and it opened and closed.

Russ pulled out his cellphone and dialed a number. Font answered.

"Okla is at the warehouse listed as his last known address," Russ whispered. "There's a building just to the east of the warehouse with boarded up windows. He's inside."

"We're on our way."

"I'm going in to keep him here."

"Russ, we're only—"

He hung up before Font could finish and slowly stood. With his gun aimed, Russ made his way around to the door. He pressed against the wall and slowly pushed the door handle until the door latch let the door open a couple of inches. Russ aimed the gun in front of his face as he opened it wide enough to slip inside. He closed the door, but didn't latch it. It took a couple minutes for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. This building didn't look so large from the outside, and definitely not so cluttered.

Russ slowly made his way through the building. As he passed two stacks of pallets, he saw a lit area on the other side of them. It was the empty room streaming to the website. He was about to come around the pallets when gunshots went off. A bullet clipped his arm and another whizzed past his face. It was close enough that the heat was going to leave a burn mark. Russ yanked back against the pallets.

* * *

The sudden activity surprised the three observers in the interrogation room. The camera had enough of a wide shot to show Russ start to come around the pallet stack. This video had sound and they heard the gunshots. Russ disappeared back around the pallets. A very confident Frank Okla walked into the center of the lighted area, aiming his gun in Russ' direction.

Guziewicz pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and hit a speed dial number – they all went to her detectives and she didn't care which one she reached right now…


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7_

"Battle Creek police, Frank Okla! Put the gun down."

Calmly he heard Frank say, "I'm disappointed. I was really hoping to kill Agent Chamberlain today."

Russ looked between the pallet slats. Frank was standing in the center of the light, his gun aimed in Russ' direction.

"Yeah. A lot of people are disappointed when they find out I'm not him. Put the gun down, Okla."

"Oh… You're one of the idiot detectives that walks under Milt's shadow."

Russ clenched his jaw. He was really starting to hate this guy.

"He screwed you over yet? He's really good at that. He promised me a fair trial; I got shit out of that promise."

"Frank, I don't care. Put your gun down."

Okla looked up at the camera. "I guess you guys found the website. Is he watching this?"

"No," Russ lied.

"He is. I can _feel_ it."

"And I bet you can feel the Tooth Fairy, too. I am really starting to lose my patience with repeating myself. Put the damned gun on the damned floor!"

Okla looked back at where Russ was hiding. He started shooting.

Russ jerked away as splinters of wood sprayed his face and neck. He almost jumped out of his skin when a hand laid on his arm but was glad to see it was Font, Jacocks, and Niblet, along with three officers. He motioned them to surround Okla, and for Funkhauser to get in position to tackle Okla on his signal.

They disappeared back into the darkness, silently surrounding the maniac.

The shooting stopped. "You dead yet?" Okla asked.

Russ darted around the side of the pallets, his gun aimed at Okla. He moved into the light with Okla, keeping the killer in his gun sight.

"Put your gun down, Okla," Russ ordered.

"No."

Russ sneered. He desperately wanted to just shoot this guy, but how many other people were watching the streaming video? He hated that politics were playing into this damned standoff.

"You know, someone needs to kill that bastard off," Okla said, motioning up at the camera with one hand. "He's a liar."

Russ didn't retort.

"Do you really think you can trust him?" Okla asked.

"Put your gun down, Okla!"

"Do you know what he did to me?"

"I don't care. Put the gun down, Okla."

"I never dealt drugs! And I didn't use them to kill anyone in that bank robbery! He wouldn't listen to me."

"Frank Okla, put the gun down on the floor."

"Fucking FBI! And that asshole Chamberlain is the worst of them! No one ever doubts him. I've seen the news around here. You people worship the guy!"

That pissed Russ off. "Listen, asshole, I don't worship the guy, I don't even like him, and I don't give a rat's ass what your problem is with Agent Chamberlain. But I do give a rat's ass about the two men you killed to frame him because you don't have the balls enough to own up to the fact you robbed a bank and however those two people died of an overdose, you were there, and you didn't try to stop it. So as far as bad people go, Agent Chamberlain has nothing on you. And if you don't put that gun down right now—"

"You're going to kill me? Don't worship him, huh? But you'll murder for him? How—"

"I am not going to kill you, because that'd be too good for you. But if you don't put that gun down I am going to give you a permanent sex change!"

"Wha…" Okla was too flabbergasted to finish

And he also didn't realize that the signal words had been spoken: sex change. Detective Funkhauser leapt from the shadows and tackled Okla to the floor. Russ rushed up and kicked the killer's gun away. With Funkhauser effectively immobilizing the man under his body mass, the officers easily handcuffed the man and led him out.

The detectives were too tired to celebrate catching a killer. Without a word they started walking toward the door. Russ stopped suddenly, stopping the group. He walked back to the lit area, looking up at the camera. With a vicious grin, he aimed his gun at the camera and killed it.

* * *

Russ sank into his worn and sagging recliner, and inhaled several gulps of beer from the cold bottle in his hand. He leaned to the side and picked up the television remote from the floor, then turned it on. He surfed through channels until he came to an old movie that looked like it might be interesting. He sat the remote on the arm of his chair and was about to recline back when someone knocked on his door.

He froze, holding still, hoping whoever it was would just go away. He dog-tired and wanted to forget the whole mess of the last few days. He was still questioning why he let himself bail Milt Chamberlain out of trouble, and could only chalk it up that he was just really good at his job.

Why did he have to be so good at his job?

The person knocked again. Russ heaved himself out of his chair and walked over to the door. He threw it open. Seeing the annoying face of the very man he was regretting saving standing in the hall with that stupid smile on it made Russ' grump meter light up. He knew he wasn't here on business, because Milt still wore prison issued sweats, T-shirt, and slip-on shoes that all convicts got when they were arrested without clothes.

"You better be here because you need my help on a case," Russ growled.

"N-No. I wanted to talk to you for a minute."

Russ took a swig of his beer. "I'm not interested in talking. Go away."

Milt acted like he hadn't just been ordered to leave. "Thank you for finding Frank Okla and proving I hadn't committed the murders or was on drugs."

"Yeah, whatever, see you Monday." Russ started to shut the door.

Milt caught the door, stopping it from shutting. Russ slowly looked up at Milt.

"I'm missing my movie," Russ tersely informed Milt.

"It's strange being the one being saved," Milt told him.

"Oh, I can only imagine. Probably just blowing your mind, huh? You know, maybe you should go home and wherever you get all that great wisdom, see what it says about that. Now _go away_."

Russ pushed against the door but Milt held on. Russ' grump meter was getting dangerously close to the ' _I need a blunt object to throw'_ mark. His hand gripped tight around the beer bottle, the only blunt object within reach.

But then he noticed a subtle change in Milton's expression, and his grump meter ratcheted down a few marks. Why was Milton nervousness?

"Why did you stop me at the hospital?" Milt asked.

"I didn't stop you from anything at the hospital."

"I was about to answer the question you've been asking since I got here, and you stopped me."

Russ suddenly saw an advantage he could use to get rid of Milt, and he was going to extort it. Russ leaned forward on the door, and asked quietly, as if this were a huge secret no one else should hear, "So what's the answer?"

Milton dropped his hand from the door and opened his mouth to answer.

Before one syllable escaped, Russ slammed the door in his face.

* * *

The only thing Milt had stopped at his apartment to do was hastily change into his clothes, and then he practically ran out. He drove for an hour, not knowing where he was headed, but somehow finding himself back at city hall. He returned to his office, his safe haven at the moment, and had been sitting in the dark at his computer since then. His focus on the screen was so intense that he didn't hear his door open or know Guziewicz was standing in his office, until she quietly cleared her throat. He looked up at her, and for a few minutes they stared at each other.

"It's late. Shouldn't you be home?" she asked.

He looked back at his computer screen. "Catching up on emails."

"You've had a rough two weeks, Milt, you need to get some rest. The emails can wait."

Milt didn't answer. She walked around his desk to the window, staring out at Battle Creek. She looked over her shoulder. It wasn't Outlook up on his screen. It was the website Okla made, and he had a video paused on an image of Okla shooting heroin in Milt's arm. She looked back out at the city.

"It's not exactly comforting knowing someone was in your apartment without you knowing, is it?"

"The locks are getting changed."

"Oh?" She looked back at him. "When?"

He didn't answer quickly. "Thursday."

"Three days from now."

He nodded.

She turned and walked over to his desk. Guziewicz reached down and switched off the monitor. The office was dimly lit by the hall lights.

"The talk with Russ didn't go well, I guess?"

"He called you?"

"No. That was just an old detective using her interrogation skills." She smiled at him. "I have a guest room. Why don't we go pick up some of your things and you keep me company for a while? Until Thursday?"

Milt looked up at her. "Thank you, but I'm fine."

"You are not invincible. There is no Super Man, no Avengers… Just us, people, regular Joe's, trying to make it to the next day alive. Okla kicked your ass, and he did a good job of it too. It's okay to fall and it's okay to take some time to figure out how to get back up, and it is okay to ask someone if you can lean on them until you can do that."

She waited, watching his face as he thought. Milt reached out and turned on his monitor.

"Thank you, but I'm fine, ma'am."

She sighed. She must have really hoped he would let her help him.

"Okay. See you Wednesday."

Milt waited for her to leave and hit play, watching the silent video.

"That was stupid," he heard Russ say from the darkness beyond the computer.

Milt didn't look up. "What was, Russ?"

"She was trying to help you."

"I don't need help."

Russ walked into the glow of the screen. He looked as bedraggled as when Milt saw him at his apartment.

"You're stubborn, and stupid, do you know that?" Russ asked.

"Coming from you, that isn't an insult. Two peas in a pod."

Russ snorted. "We're nothing alike."

Milt didn't try to correct him.

"Well, come on," Russ told him and walked away.

"Come where?"

"We're going to get a beer. Then you're crashing on my couch. But if you try talking about some stupid shit, I am kicking your ass."

Milt looked up. Russ was already to the front door of the office. Milt jumped up, grabbed his jacket from his chair, and trotted to catch up. He found Russ standing outside, looking up at the sky. He looked up. The sky was clear and even through the streetlights there were speckles of stars.

He looked down when Russ walked past. Milt fell in beside him.

"And thank you for rescuing me when I was kidnapped," Russ said.

Milt smiled, but he knew better than to say something stupid.

 _ **The End**_


End file.
